


Reunion

by EnochianWhisperer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Body Horror, Emetophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-02-14 09:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13004475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnochianWhisperer/pseuds/EnochianWhisperer
Summary: A few years have passed since Clark Barker was stabbed. He has (mostly) recuperated from the trauma he sustained when angels invaded his mother's workplace and is now in college, earning a degree in music technology, and working part-time jobs. While his band is performing one night, a familiar face reappears and Clark's world is thrown off-kilter once again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this Ao3 account forever, and finally I'm putting it to use. Apparently my first publication is a slash fic (which, I haven't written any of those _also_ in forever-). Apologies for any ignorance of new fanfiction lexicon/etiquette. It's been a very long time. 
> 
> Here's to my first fic. Happy reading.

Clark had never again been so scared in his life after he was stabbed at the police station where his mother worked. He thought he was going to bleed out before arriving at the hospital, but thankfully the skill of experienced practitioners saved his life. Ever since then, he was never quite the same spunky, happy kid. It got easier, the more months and years he put behind him, but the experience taught him the invaluable lesson of appreciating life, and since then, he strove to get his shit together.  
  
Christine, his mother, never admitted it aloud, but she was relieved when her son finally stopped riding on her coattails. She was proud of him for showing initiative and striving to claim independence from her. Now he was off to college and working a part-time job. He was still working in food service, but it was a far better job than the pathetic one she hooked him up with at Pirate Pete's Jolly Treats. She was still involved with the restaurant's manager, and their relationship had progressed into something more serious. Clark used to not care about the men his mother would entertain, but now he did: his mom was practically scraping the bottom of the barrel with that guy. Clark became repulsed by their relationship, hence he was all the more eager to leave home as soon as he finished high school.  
  
Clark was now in his fourth year of college, racking up credits for a degree in music technology. He was determined to carve a path out for himself in the industry, but he'd been down on his luck this semester, failing to score an internship with a local music production company. Instead, he kept to waiting tables and squeezing in the occasional gig when he could. Clark and his best friend, Raul, founded a band named the Armadillo Rambles with a group of friends, and they were fairly liked by the denizens.  
  
One night, the Armadillo Rambles were performing in a bar. Clark and his friends performed their good luck rituals as usual; they hoped that tonight would finally be the night that some representative would be sitting in the crowd, waiting to sign them their first record deal. The young men had all worked hard to compose original pieces, bring them to life, and advertise themselves, but thus far, they had no takers. Clark was the one who got his friends hooked on performative superstitions. At first they ridiculed him, but after they got their first gig, they were convinced. Before stepping out onto the dais, Clark kissed the glass nazar amulet that he always wore around his neck (he always thought that protection charms were just as important as good luck ones).  
  
The Armadillo Rambles gave a good performance. After their final song, they received generous applause and bowed to their audience. Raul, his co-frontman, thanked everyone for their support, and the band disassembled their rigging, and gave up the stage to the next act, a local comedian. The six boys all headed straight for the bar and ordered shots, clapped each other on the shoulders, and commended one another on another good show. Under dim, neon lights, they drank, crossed their fingers, and mingled with the crowd.  
  
As Clark was talking to a young, collegiate woman, he noticed someone over her shoulder. She was expressing great interest in the Armadillos' music, but he lost track of their conversation. She noticed quickly that he wasn't paying attention to her.  
  
"What?" she asked, then turned aside and followed his line of sight. Sitting alone in one of the booths twenty feet away, there was a young man with sandy hair watching them. Watching _him_ , more precisely. Clark didn't answer her. "Hello?" She was annoyed, but Clark didn't acknowledge her. Miffed, the collegiate deserted him. He didn't even notice.  
  
He became painfully reminded of the scar that gouged deep into his stomach: it burned just as badly as it had when it was a fresh wound. With a hand tenderly clasped over his lower abdomen, he approached the booth. His mind tumbled to form a opening sentence. Instead, he only questioned the identity of the man who was now sitting in front of him.  
  
"Jack?"  
  
The man in the booth gave him a smile that made his eyes squint.  
  
"Hello, Clark."  
  
"Wh—" _What are you doing here? I never thought I'd see you again. How did you find me? WHY are you here? Are you stalking me??_ All of these questions pushed and shoved to come out of his mouth first and got crammed in his throat. Clark couldn't speak. Jack noticed the young man's seeming impediment and spoke for him.  
  
"I'm not going to hurt you," he promised. Then, he added, casting his eyes down towards Clark's stomach, "My apology is very overdue."  
  
_Apology for what?_ Clark wondered stupidly despite the obvious.  
  
"Have a seat." Jack gestured with his eyes to the bench across from his. Robotically, he obeyed. Mouth hanging open, Clark stared at him. Jack leaned over the tabletop, closer to him, and continued: "You got hurt because of me, years ago. It was my fault and I'm sorry."  
  
"Y—You didn't stab me," Clark managed to say. "It's cool though—I'm totally over it." He shifted uncomfortably and scratched his thick, sable hair with uncertain fingers. "Like—whatever!" He laughed. "It's totally whatever." _Oh god—_  
  
An uncomfortable silence followed. Well, it was only uncomfortable for Clark.  
  
"I heard you play," Jack said. "I liked it."  
  
_Jesus, he sounds exactly the same._ "Really? Thanks—" _Stop laughing, oh my god I'm gonna hurl myself right out this window._  
  
"I've never heard anything like it." (Nothing but earnestness from Jack; his music palate was still severely underdeveloped, all this time later.)  
  
"Oh yeah, me and my friends are trying to do more experimental stuff—"  
  
"Clark!"  
  
Zeroing in on them were his band mates, plus a few girls. One of them—the bass guitarist, Jesse—said, "Dude, we thought you bailed for a second—" and without asking to sit, they slid into the booth, trapping both boys against the window. The girls were smiling and giggling between them, and Clark got a face full of bleach-blond hair. "Who's this?" another boy asked of the stranger, who was visibly uncomfortable by being cramped into the booth.  
  
"Jack," Clark explained quickly, before the other could introduce himself. "He's—an old buddy of mine."  
  
Jack's eyes narrowed, but he didn't, against his conscience, tell the truth. He got the impression that they wouldn't understand.  
  
"Really—"  
  
"Yeah, he—"  
  
"Nice to meet you, Jack!"  
  
Overlapping dialogue blanketed the booth. Two of Clark's friends were schmoozing the girls they'd picked up, Jack was attempting to look over top his neighbor's head at Raul, who was pegging him with questions. Clark was getting pushed against the glass by Jesse, and he noticed Jack's discomfort.  
  
"Hey guys, can we maybe get the booth back to ourselves?" Clark asked, annoyed, "I was having a private conversation with my friend. I haven't seen him in years, and—"  
  
"I'm leaving," Jack said to him, and then he vanished from the crowded booth.  
  
Chaos ensued.  
  


○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

"What the hell was that?!" Clark shouted. Jack had vanished to one of the local parks near his campus, and after searching for an hour (after managing to disappear in the madhouse the bar turned into after the disappearance was witnessed by his band mates and some other surrounding patrons), Clark found him there, waiting. "You just up and Houdini-ed right out of that booth! Dude, I knew you were weird back then with the vending machine, but this is just straight-up CRAZY. What the hell ARE YOU?"

Jack contemplated his own response.

Clark threw up his arms. "You know what? Nevermind. Forget it. I don't want to know. Just stay away from me—" He turned away and headed back to the bar.

"I'm a Nephilim."

He stopped. Turned back around. "What?"

"I'm a Nephilim," Jack repeated.

The words had the delayed impact of a projectile passing through sludge. Clark produced a bemused titter: "Are you kidding me? Like from _Assassin's Creed_?"

Jack hesitated. "...I don't know what that is."

"It's a videoga—How do you _not know_ what _Assassin's Creed_ is?!" he exclaimed. Jack didn't answer, then Clark spoke again: "...Oh my god, you're not kidding, are you?"

Jack shook his head. "I'm not."

Jack watched Clark process this earth-shaking information. Before his eyes, the young college student went from broken-record denials to such disturbance that he wound up crouching on the ground, holding his head in his hands. " _Oh god..._ ," he groaned.

"Clark?"

" _So many questions..._ "

"I can answer them," Jack offered. He didn't understand what was so shocking about the fact that Nephilim existed, but then he concluded that it must not be common knowledge. Clark shook his head. Jack didn't know how to respond to that, so he got closer and offered his hand. Clark saw it, gave Jack a puzzled look, then accepted it. Jack hoisted him up. He underestimated his own strength because he pulled Clark up so fast that they nearly collided. Clark wheeled back a step and they locked eyes. Then he averted his.

"Right...," he said. "Yeah... that'd be swell."

"Are you okay?" Jack asked. "Your face is turning pink."

"What—" It clicked. "—oh god. No, no! It's nothing, I just—I have a skin condition—"

"I'm sorry." Jack's brows bent sympathetically.

"It's okay..." God, Clark felt so stupid. But his stupidity didn't come _close_ to topping Jack's.

_Holy shit. He can't be for real._

"I need to sit down."

Jack spotted a bench. "There," he pointed, and led Clark over to it. Jack sat beside him and watched him for a moment, while Clark kept his own eyes entirely elsewhere. His gut burned.

"...Who stabbed me?" was his first question.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, FINALLY I wrapped up another chapter. Sorry for the wait. Enjoy!

After a long conversation on the park bench with Jack, Clark went home. He had asked Jack about his current housing situation and Jack told him not to worry about it. Then he made sure that Jack wasn't going to make any _sudden appearances_ in his apartment on a whim. They agreed to meet up again tomorrow at the same spot then parted ways. Or, really, Jack took flight and left Clark, agape, in his wake. Alone, in pain, he began the walk home and processed everything he had just learned.

Angels were real. So were demons. And ghosts. And monsters.

An angel had stabbed him. Angels tried to abduct Jack years ago at his mom's station because his powers were useful to them. Angels were an endangered species and they believed that he was capable of restoring their population. Jack was a Nephilim. He was half-angel and half-human. He was the son of the fallen archangel Lucifer.

Clark felt dizzied by all of this information. All of it was crazy, but Jack being the literal son of Satan was just straight-up _insane_. He couldn’t accept it all as irrefutable truth, especially not that. Jack had moments where he looked a bit menacing, okay, but Clark wouldn’t have ever pegged him as an evil person. It was ludicrous. And come to think of it, why hadn’t his mom ever explained the situation at the station to him? Did she not know either? She had to know something about that mess. Those weird plainclothed FBI guys came in—

Either his mom had been holding out all these years, or Jack was some delusional nutjob.

Still, how could he disappear like that…?

Clark was getting his thoughts all knotted up and he groaned, both because he was frustrated by the bizarre complexities of his past and because his gut was hurting so badly. He stopped, hunched over, and took his phone out of his pocket. He remembered his friends and figured that now was probably a good time to check his messages. He was not wrong when anticipating that there would be an onslaught.

_—Who the fuck was that guy?! Is he related to Criss Angel or something?!_

_—???????????????_

_—CLARK_ (Jesse)

_—Clark what the fuck just happened??_

_—Seriously was that some elaborate prank that you guys had planned months in advance???_

_—I'm seriously questioning my sanity here dude PLEASE ANSWER._ (Reg)

— _Are you okay?_

_—Talk to me, man._

_—Hello?_

_—Clark?_

_—HELLO???_ (Raul)

— _I_ _'M LOSING MY SHIT HERE._ (Devon)

— _Clark so help me god if you don't explain the shit my eyes just witnessed_ (Tyler)

 _—Hey! How's school going? Miss you._ (Mom)

He'd also been left over a dozen voicemails. Tediously he went through each one and deleted them. Clark wanted to throttle Jack for the havoc he had wreaked. He had no idea how to explain what his friends all saw and he was probably never going to hear the end of it from them. He sighed, shoved the phone back in his pocket (after replying to his mom), and picked up the pace against the burning refusal of his stomach to sally forth.

When Clark returned to his apartment complex he was met by a melee.

"Holy shit, there he is!"

“Clark!”

Clark’s friends had been waiting for him on the third story balcony. All five of them raced down the stairwell. Clark's head sloshed like a stomach full of water and he stopped, allowing them to come to him rather than taking another step. He vomited just before they reached him, and they all stopped, some of them gaping and groaning in repulsion.

"Clark!" Raul yelled, and they all gathered around.

"Jesus, what happened??"

"Where'd you go? We thought that freaky son of a bitch abducted you or something!"

"Hey, stop crowding him! Give him space!"

"Guys, shut up before someone calls the cops on our asses!" Raul said. The boys all shut their traps. Clark was moaning. Raul continued, to his best friend, "Hey man, what the hell is going on? Shit, you need to go to the hospital?"

"No," Clark gasped.

"Jesse, call 9-1-1."

"NO," Clark repeated. "I'm okay, I just need my medicine...!"

"Medicine? What medicine?"

Raul knew what he was talking about. He ditched the group and ran back up to Clark's apartment He pounded a fist on the door. A few moments later, they saw Clark's agitated roommate opened the door.

" _Oh my god, will you obnoxious shitheads fuck off—_ " he started, but Raul pushed his way inside. " _WHAT THE FUCK! I'm calling the fucking cops!_ " More indiscernible banter followed from within the apartment, and Raul reemerged. He bounded down the steps back to his friends with a then-visibly worried roommate tailing behind. By then Clark was laying on the sidewalk, just breathing through the fire. Raul skidded to a stop, popped the bottle, and held out two capsules to Clark’s mouth. Clark downed his pain management medication, which he'd foolishly chosen [i]not[/i] to take that day in favor of social drinking, and closed his eyes. He only kept insisting, " _No ambulance, I’ll be good, don't call the ambulance.._." until he passed out.

The next morning, Clark woke up in his bed, much to his relief. But, disconcertingly, he woke up to find that he wasn’t alone in his room.

“Oh, Jesus…” He struggled to sit up, but Raul stopped him. “You guys stayed overnight? _Here? In my room_?”

“Well, Jesse bailed. You scared the shit out of us, man,” said Reg. “We thought you had alcohol poisoning or something.”

“ _But_ ,” Raul said, “I explained the situation.” He looked remorseful, dropping his eyes from Clark’s. “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want anyone else to know,... but it was either spilling the beans, or a hospital bill.”

Clark absorbed this with ease. “...No… I don’t care anymore,” he decided. Clark’s eyes were also downcast, but then he extended a hand to Raul. “Thanks man. You saved my ass.”

“Raul said you got stabbed.” Reg said this tentatively. Clark sighed.

“Yeah. I almost died too.”

“Shit.”

“Ah, whatever,” Clark said. He shrugged. “It’s in the past, so…”

The medicine bottle on Clark’s nightstand begged to differ.

“Hey, guys, listen,” Clark started, “I’m super grateful that you all looked out for me. I’m a little _creeped out that you watched me while I was asleep, but—_ ”

The boys around Clark’s bed were all humored and it made Clark feel better to be surrounded by smiling friends. And then he saw the time on his alarm clock.

“ _Oh my god—I’M LATE!_ ” He sprang up and out of bed, going straight for his dresser.

“Hey, geez, whoa!” Raul cautioned, “Clark, you need to rest! Just call in sick.”

“I can’t.” Clark pulled open his dresser and fished out a pair of pants. “I promised my boss I’d come in—”

“Are you crazy?” Devon said quizzically. “You almost landed yourself in the hospital yesterday—”  
  
“Jesus, GUYS, I’M FINE.” Clark stared at them and they were silent. Then in a more controlled voice: “Can you get out of my room? I’m not about to do a strip tease.”

One-by-one, they filed out. Raul was the last to leave and before disappearing beyond the threshold, he turned back and said, “Be careful, okay? Don’t hurt yourself. Later, Clark.”

After shimmying into business casual attire, Clark emerged from his room to find that his friends had seen themselves out. His roommate was long-gone for his own job: working at the local publishing house. Clark hustled to shove down a bite of food, then was out the door. He jimmied down the stairwell and booked it across the parking lot and the small lawn on his apartment complex. He spotted his friends walking together just across the street and they turned to see him. Clark gave them a quick, awkward salute and hurried on. In truth, he wasn’t in the best mood or shape to show up to work today, but he didn’t know how else to evade questions that he couldn’t answer.  

Being on waitstaff was far more demanding than manning the register at Pirate Pete's, but Clark felt a great sense of accomplishment with every shift he survived, even if the pay was dubious. It also allowed him opportunities to promote his own band, when he could appropriately slip it into the conversation. Clark arrived late, but after explaining to the manager that he had a medical emergency last night, he was let off the hook. Clark slipped on his apron and got busy waiting on tables. Immersing himself in the job provided relief from the current stresses of his imbalanced life.

About an hour into service, Jack showed up in the restaurant. Clark spotted him seated at one of the booths beside the windows, and jarred him. A fellow waitress, Katie, zeroed in and told him that Jack had asked for him specifically. Of course, Clark obliged the request.

He approached Jack’s booth and instead of giving a proper greeting, he asked, "What are you doing here?"

"We agreed to meet," Jack answered.

 _Yeap, he's a stalker—_ "At the park later! We can't talk right _now_."

"Why not?"

"I'm _working!_ " Clark lost his grip on volume control and looked around furtively. "Look, maybe you're really _t_ _hat_ detached from reality, but humans have to have _jobs_ in order to eat and stuff. Do Nephilim even _eat?_ "

"Yes. But not as often as humans."

"Okay, well, you have to order something. Only customers can sit at these tables, so if you're not gonna eat, I gotta boot you." Clark handed Jack a menu. He took it, opened it, and started reading. "Hold on—" Clark stopped him. Jack looked at him. "—do you have money to pay for food?"

Jack kept his eyes on Clark for a moment, then reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a few folded twenties. _At least he knows what legal tender is—_

"Is this enough?" he asked.

"Yeah, unless you're ordering for a whole football team." Clark looked around. "Okay, I have to check on other customers. Just figure out what you want, and I'll be back in a bit."

He could feel Jack's eyes on him as he tended to other tables. Outwardly he was all smiles and hospitality. Inwardly he was a ball of wrapped up anxiety and annoyance and fluster. After making his rounds (and taking care of one disgruntled man who said his silverware was dirty), he returned to Jack's table.

"I want the 'Two Eggs with Bacon and Hashed Browns'."

Clark wrote the order down on his pad. "That comes with toast. What kind of bread?"

"...Regular?"

"White," he sighed, making note. "And your drink? Milk, orange juice—"

"Sprite."

Clark stared at him. Then wrote it down.

"... _Sprite_ —"

Jack was smiling and Clark hated him for it. Well, not really. He hated _himself_ for contracting it. The corners of his mouth twitched as he tried to suppress one forming on his own face.

" _So freakin' weird_ ," he muttered as he walked the order to the kitchen.

Clark brought Jack his soda first and he watched him sip it contentedly through a straw. He blinked himself out of a trance, and moved on to his other tables, taking empty plates, delivering orders, bringing bills, and pocketing tips. The rest of Jack's patronage at the restaurant wafted along like a balloon carried by a breeze. Clark regretted that he was working; he would've liked to sit across from Jack again. Continue yesterday's conversation. He only put a pin in it because he knew his friends were losing their shit elsewhere and probably looking for him. After Jack paid (he didn't leave a tip, but Clark pardoned his ignorance of tipping culture), he said that he would be waiting for him at the park. He didn't vanish into thin air like he did last night. He exited _properly_ through the glass door and disappeared out of sight without looking back.

After his shift ended, Clark shuffled out to their meeting spot. Sure enough, Jack was waiting by the same park bench when he arrived. Tired from being on his feet for hours on end, Clark moved past Jack, to the bench itself, and sat down without so much as a “hello.” Jack was confused. He stood there for an awkward moment, then turned on his feet to look at the sitting young man, and decided to sit beside him. Clark put his face in his hands and heaved a long sigh.

"Jesus, man, you've caused me so much trouble with your vanishing act last night," Clark started, with exasperation lacing his voice. "What the hell am I supposed to tell my friends about the guy who _physically fucking disappeared right before their eyes?_ "

"...The truth?" he suggested.

"Oh, _yeah!_ " Clark huffed, vexed, " _That won't get me dumped in the loony bin._ "

"...Coming here was a mistake," Jack concluded.

"What?"

"I _shouldn't_ have _come here_."

Seeing Jack's agitated expression almost put him on the defensive: _Oh no, YOU don't have the right to be mad. You're not the one who just got your LIFE UPENDED by some FREAK—_

But Clark observed him instead. Jack was avoiding eye contact and he could swear that he saw his lower lip purse in a slight pout. There was something unsettling about seeing this, but he couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was.

"...No, you totally should have."

Jack's eyes reconnected with his. Also unsettling, but in a different way. Clark sucked a breath in.

"Look,... it's not your fault I almost died back then. I stand by that. But the fact that you found me again—which I still have _no idea how_ you did that, by the way—the fact that you found me again all these years later to apologize... I appreciate it."

Jack absorbed these words, and they salvaged his smile, albeit a sad one. It disappeared again quickly.

“I shouldn’t have disappeared like that last night. I wasn’t being sensitive to the context of the situation. I was uncomfortable and I didn’t consider the ramifications of my actions.” Jack’s sudden prolific speech startled him. Clark remembered Jack being a man of few, simplistic words back when they first met. In fact, Jack had almost reminded him of a kid but he just figured that the guy had been higher than a kite. _Now—_ “Because of that, I put you in an unideal position that may be irreconcilable. I’m sorry.”

Clark blinked.

“...I don’t know if I can do it…,” Jack mused, “but I might be able to erase your friends’ memories of me.”

Another blink and a stitch of the brows. “...No way…” Clark shook his head. “You can tamper with people’s memories?”

“I can try to erase yours too, if you want.”

“What?”

This genuinely took Clark aback. Naturally, his traumatic experience was, at best, unpleasant to recall. There were many mornings, especially early on, where he woke up hating his life. He hated looking at himself in the mirror every time he undressed or everytime he showered. It crippled his confidence and he couldn’t go shirtless anywhere anymore. He hated the fact that he was forever damned to dependency on prescription drugs to function healthily. In confidence, he once told his therapist that he refused to—quote-unquote—”suck on the tit of Big Pharma.” That pill bottle at his bedside mocked him.

“I can try to make you forget me.”

But here now was a chance, a thread in hell’s chance that he could forget all of that pain, initial and subsequent. Clark deliberated.

“...No,” he finally decided. “I don’t want to forget you.” Jack’s smile was coaxed back out. Clark realized he was smiling too. He dropped it like a rock and added quickly, “But I mean you _can_ scrub my friends’ heads, by all means, seriously, you’d be doing me a _huge_ favor.”

_How would forgetting you rid me of my physical pain anyway?_

“Hey, uh,” he continued, “can you heal people? Like physically heal people?”

Jack shook his head. “No. I can only heal myself.”

Clark’s hope sank. “Oh.” _Right. Of course_.

Jack seemed to be looking right through Clark’s shirt.

“Believe me, I’ve tried.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End-of-the-month monthly updates might just become a trend for me. I'll try to dole out one chapter around each thirty days or so. Here is the third chapter. 
> 
> I need to point out that I probably misconceived the building layout of the lakeside cabin where Jack was born, but a while ago I found out through some very observant tumblr fans that the house's layout continuity is actually already erroneous in canon, so I think I may be able to get away with my conception of it.
> 
> Stay tuned for more in the future, and thank you for reading.

After Jack fled the bunker from the Winchesters and Castiel, the first place he went was the small lakeside cabin where he was born. He hadn't known where to go; he just squeezed his eyes shut, spread his wings, and took off in a thunderous gust, wanting to go someplace where he wouldn't be a danger to anybody.  
  
When he opened his eyes, he saw a massive lake. On the far side of it, land that mustered into a respectable mountain range. Jack recognized them. He turned around, and sure enough, there was the little lakeside house where he was born. And just feet in front of him was the spot where both his mother and Castiel were burned. His heart became heavy. Mia Vallens had given him catharsis when she stripped the flesh from her body and stepped into the guise of Kelly, but Jack still missed his mother. He walked towards the heaps of charred wood and ash that were once funeral pyres. He spotted footprints tracking all around them, sand kicked around, and then he noticed that the back door of the house was crossed with yellow. Paying minimal mind to the cautioning words spanning the door frame, Jack curiously pulled the tape aside, stretching it like taffy until it ripped. He twisted the knob, but it wouldn't budge. He jerked his wrist. It was locked.  
  
Frustration flashed.  
  
_Snap!_  
  
The lock broke and the knob twisted. Jack ripped the addition red-and-white warning tape sealing the door by pushing it in, and entered.  
  
He looked around the crime scene. He didn't see anything peculiar until he saw into the dining room. On the table was a dark red stain, and there was a yellow tag propped up beside it. He picked up the tag, looked at it, then put it back.  
  
Jack climbed up the stairs and went into the room that was meant to be his nursery. He spent a few minutes taking everything in. Which wasn't much: the freshly painted walls, a dresser, a cabinet, and a crib set away from the single, aged window. His eyes scrolled over the half vaulted ceiling that slanted up towards the wall he was standing at. There were glow-in-the-dark stars and planets on it. It was a spacious room for a baby, but the room had been chosen with the idea that the expected infant would grow into it. Slowly.  
  
Jack stared at his name, spelled in painted, wooden building-block letters, hung on the wall in a gentle arc over the crib.  
  
He approached the crib and put a hand on it. Through the smoothed, new wood, he felt his parents' love.  
  
After meditating in his room long enough, he went across the hall to the master bedroom. The bed where Kelly died was heavily stained with dried blood. The mattress lay bare, having been stripped of its sheets. Another yellow tag had been placed at the foot of it. Jack's eyes moved over to the corner of the room where his homonculean figure had crawled just after escaping the womb. The rapid growth he underwent was painful and he writhed like a worm that had vinegar trickled onto its skin. Bones jutted and stretched his muscles, ligaments, and skin. His organs were pulled taut and hair shrilled from the follicles all over his body. Jack remembered crouching in the corner, scared and confused, despite the threatening glower of his face. Sam and Dean confronted him, he retaliated, escaped from the house, fled—  
  
Jack remembered Clark Barker and for a moment, he brightened. But he quickly remembered that he had injured the boy's mother and put them both in peril. Well, he figured out how to stifle his output of celestial radiation, so he wouldn't be attracting the angels' attention again. But he himself was still dangerous. He was pretty sure Christine wouldn't be happy to see him again. Judging by the shape Clark was in when he left the station, Jack wasn't sure he would be happy to see him either. It was a shame. In different circumstances, Jack might've tried to find his way back to Pirate Pete's Jolly Treats.  
  
After leaving the house through the same door he entered, Jack looked at the small house from the outside again. The longer he looked at it, the worse he felt. Sadness and anger welled inside him in an ugly mixture and Jack whittled into a breakdown. In rage, he screamed. Sonic shock waves collided with the house, raking cracks and fissures throughout the structure. Moments later, the walls shattered and debris went flying out into the lake. Chunks of masonry, wood, sheet rock, and other materials were strewn across the shore, littering the pyres. Jack crouched and curled into himself. When he heard a vehicle approaching—belonging to the homeowner of a distant, but neighboring cabin—Jack stole away.  
  
Without even thinking about it, he had sought refuge at his next familiar spot: Pirate Pete's.  
  
Jack was careful not to get too close. Just close enough to see in the big front windows. There was a fat, young, acne-speckled kid in the back working the grill. A girl was upfront manning the cash register. Clark Barker was nowhere to be seen. He concluded that Clark must still be recovering from getting stabbed. He remembered Clark being hoisted up into an ambulance, but beyond that, he had no idea where he could be. He stood out in the open parking lot and stared the establishment down in contemplation. He recognized at once the tacky drive-thru speaker statue of Pirate Pete that he had stupidly mistaken for his father. While naked. Jack averted his eyes in momentary embarrassment of the memory. Jack saw the Pirate Pete's cook look up from his task and stop. He was staring. At him.  
  
Jack stared back. Waited. Then vanished.  
  
Into the treeline. He could still see the tiny fast food place from where he stood now, but he was hidden from immediate sight. Jack inhaled deeply and exhaled. Clark Barker wheedled back into his thoughts.  
  
He had caused so much destruction. He thought about the people he left behind. Castiel, Sam,... Dean...  
  
Well, he had just proved Dean right about his monstrosity, hadn't he? Again and again and again. Sam and Castiel had believed in him and he let them down. But he heard their shouts. They followed him into the warp. Their voices, while only calling out his name, told him that they still believed in him. And for them, he knew, he _had_ to try.  
  
Jack waited before returning to the lakeside cabin. When he did, he tried to reconstruct it. Jack outstretched his hands and focused. He attuned to the energy in the atmosphere around him and sought out the wreckage. He tried to grasp pieces of the house and pull them back together. He succeeded in telekinetically moving chunks of the rubble, but attempting to fit them back together was a futile effort. It was like trying to fit a billion-piece jig-saw puzzle whose pieces were of infinite sizes and shapes. Even if he could rebuild the cabin, he couldn't fit it so perfectly that the cracks would seal and it would be able to stand all on its own again. After a while, Jack had no choice but to chalk it up as another failure.  
  
Gazing over his defeat with a stoic expression, Jack contemplated his next move. There had to be a way he could prove that he wasn't a bad person, that he could do at least one good thing.  
  
Once again, Clark Barker came wheedling back into his thoughts. Against his prior convictions, he proceeded.  
  
Jack searched for Clark. First he went back to Pirate Pete's and entered this time. He asked the cashier girl for locations where "very hurt people" were taken, while noting the stiffness of the boy in the kitchen behind her. The girl, perplexed by the fashion of his query, had replied: "...A hospital?" Then the boy jumped in and shakily directed him to the nearest one, about forty-five minutes away. Jack left the place wondering why he seemed scared of him. He forgot his manners and whisked himself away right as he exited the glass door, leaving the teenagers shrieking, and the boy telling his coworker frantically: "I TOLD YOU! I FUCKING TOLD YOU!"  
  
Jack arrived in a congested hospital lobby of modern design. It was a miracle that no one noticed his sudden entrance. He took in his surroundings, then consulted one of the women sitting behind a counter on the far side of the room.  
  
"I'm looking for Clark Barker," he began.  
  
"Relation?"  
  
"...Friend."  
  
"Sign in on the sheet."  
  
Jack looked down at a pad that logged the hospital's visits. A pen lay across it for his convenience. The receptionist noticed his hesitation. Jack slowly picked up the pen, clenching it in a fist. He put its tip to the paper, under the column asking for visitors' names. He paused.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Jack started. She was staring at him. "I...I..."  
  
At once she understood. She couldn't help giving him a strange look, then motioned. He gave the pad and utensil to her.  
  
"What's your name?" she asked.  
  
"Jack."  
  
She wrote.  
  
"Last name?"  
  
It was the police station all over again. Jack was stumped. He grasped at straws.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Too long. He was taking too long to answer—  
  
"Kline."  
  
She looked back down to write.  
  
"...Jack Kline..."  
  
The receptionist looked at her computer to fill out the time slot, then searched the database for one Clark Barker. It had come to Jack out of thin air: the memory of his mother's name echoing in her womb from voices beyond.  
  
"Clark is on Floor 3, in Room 7C." She filled out a visitor tag for him, including the information as well as the date: 11/16/17. He accepted the card and thanked her. She directed him to the elevators and he departed.  
  
Jack ascended to the third floor and then had the enlightening experience of navigating his way to Room 7C. He accidentally wound up in the wrong wing and had to be escorted by a nurse to the proper one.  
  
Clark was alone, asleep in a bed, when he arrived. Jack thanked the nurse and she left. He watched the sleeping patient from the doorway, then approached. He stood over and eyed him from head to toe. Then he looked at his own hands, and pulled away the blankets. Jack realized that Clark must have been sleeping very deeply because he didn't so much as stir while he did this. He was wearing a hospital gown, he discovered. Jack wasn't deterred by any preconceived notions that he beneath it he was naked and proceeded to ride it up so that he could see what was underneath. It turned out that Clark was wearing briefs, but even then, Jack didn't pay this much mind. He was a lot more concerned about what was several inches higher: bandaging. He glanced over his shoulder.  
  
Jack carefully pulled away the strips winding around Clark's abdomen. He tore the gauze when he needed to until the wound, stitched, was revealed. He only hesitated a second, then put his hands on the young man's stomach.  
  
He remembered how he healed himself of all of his own wounds; the wound that Miriam gave him; and the wounds that his mother gave herself. He hadn't been able to do it for that guard at the bank in Texas, but he could do it now for Clark. Jack sharpened his focus into a fine point and pushed.  
  
"You."  
  
Jack turned abruptly. Clark's mother was standing in the doorway, in uniform, with flowers and balloons in hand. She dropped the bouquet. It took a moment for Jack to respond.  
  
"—Christine," he said, recalling her name at once.  
  
"What are you doing? Get away from my son," she ordered. Her free hand was twitching for the gun in her holster.  
  
"I'm trying to make things right."  
  
"It's because of you that he's in that bed, you know that? Back up."  
  
Jack stepped away from the bed. He saw that under a thin layer of anger, Christine was scared. Of him.  
  
"...Exactly," he answered, with a somber expression.  
  
Upon hearing this, Christine looked almost disarmed. Jack continued after a long moment of silence.  
  
"It was my fault that Clark was hurt. I have to take responsibility for that. ...I hurt you too."  
  
Christine blinked at him, then something overcame her which caused her rigid form to relax.  
  
"No...," she said shaking her head, "Jack, you didn't hurt Clark. It wasn't your fault... He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I put the blame on you just now because I was mad and not thinking clearly. That wasn't fair of me. I'm sorry."  
  
"But I still hurt you."  
  
"Because I touched you without asking and you got startled. It's okay, Jack, I forgive you."  
  
Jack was surprised, but grateful. Christine shook the tension between them off.  
  
"How were you going to make things right?" she asked.  
  
Jack glanced at Clark.  
  
"I was going to heal him."  
  
Her brows perched.  
  
"I'm sorry? You can heal people?" Then she revoked what she decided was a stupid question. "Oh, _that's not surprising—_ "  
  
"I don't know."  
  
Christine shut her mouth.  
  
"That's what I came to find out."  
  
Jack turned back to the bed.  
  
"Wait."  
  
He looked back to Christine. She was on the edge of speech, but then she sighed, sagging.  
  
"Go ahead," she said. Jack returned his eyes to Clark and extended his hands. "But after, you're gonna tell me what exactly the hell my son and I got mixed up in."  
  
Once more, he looked Christine in the eyes. Hers drilled into his.  
  
" _I need answers._ "


End file.
